


Noona

by creepy_crawly



Series: Kpop Scenarios [1]
Category: Big Bang (Band), K-pop
Genre: F/M, Porn, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Smut, request
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_crawly/pseuds/creepy_crawly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T.O.PxNoona, and by "noona" I mean "you, dear reader"</p>
<p>(Later evolving into GD, GTOP, and GTOPNoona.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noona

**Author's Note:**

> Written on request. I do write porn on demand, so please feel free to drop by my tumblr (veritinme) and say hi and request pornings.
> 
> If requester and I keep this up, there's going to be more to this. Because reasons. Most of which are "mm, pr0n."

“Noona!” Seunghyun’s manager greets you, a broad smile on his face. “Lovely, lovely noona.”

You frown at him, sorting through a stack of silk ties that somehow ended up on your desk. They’re all basically same, which is the worst part. Nothing quite like having to decide if a fabric is yellow-green or green-yellow. “What do you want?”

He continues smiling at you, but there’s definitely sweat on his forehead. Oh, yeah. He’s worried about something.

“I already confirmed Seunghyunnie’s appointment for this evening,” you say, watching him. “We’ve been over fabrics and colors—I checked with the other actors’ management, so we know we’re on there. I’ve set aside his make-up kit. He doesn’t need a derm visit or anything special. So what, exactly, do you need, Kim Jungeun?”

That’s enough to break the façade. He drops the false smile with a heavy sigh, reaches up and combs a hand through his hair. “Look, um. This is awkward, okay? But, ah. What are you doing tonight?”

Your eyebrow climbs dangerously high. “Tonight? I’m making our pretty-boy prettier and sending him out to play with the pretty people.”

“After that.”

You laugh. This is getting ridiculous. “Really? Do you want the real answer or the less pathetic one?”

He snorts. As a manager, he’s been around enough coordis to know that you all talk a big game, but when it comes down to it, most non-work nights are spent eating lonely bowls of ramyun on the couch while watching reruns of Goong. “The real one would be awesome.”

“I,” you say proudly, drawing yourself up to your full height, “have a date. With my couch.”

“And Goong?”

“Ha. As if. Rooftop Prince.”

He snorts again. “What if I were to offer you a better option?”

“Like what?” you ask, curious now.

He frowns again. “Like I said, this is awkward. But, uh, Seunghyun-ah needs a companion for tonight’s event. A female companion. And, well.” He seems hesitant, like he doesn’t want to finish the thought.

Luckily for him, you don’t need his help. This one is a thought you can finish all on your own. You’ve worked the entertainment business for a while, now, after all, and you’re certainly not dumb. “He doesn’t want a scandal. So he needs someone it looks like he’s just bringing as a friend.”

A nod. “Yeah.”

You sigh heavily, thinking of the DVDs you finally ordered the other night, of your flannel pyjamas, of the soft throw pillows on your way-too-comfy couch. It gets worse when you think about fine fabrics and fancy shoes, elegant hairdos and perfectly-proportioned makeup. And, ugh, the long-line bra you’ll have to wear under the only dress you own that will match what you’ve got set aside for Seunghyun. And the garters—god, you’ll have to wear garters, because that’s not the kind of dress you don’t wear stockings with (not when you’ve got that scar on your knee, anyway.)

“I’m in,” you say, shaking your head at your own ridiculousness. “But tell Seunghyun that he’s going to owe me for a month of Sundays!”

\---

When you had asked him which girlfriend taught him about applying lipstick this way, Seunghyun had laughed and blamed Jiyong. You, kiss-dazed and still stupid on the soft feel of his lips and the sweet taste of his tongue, had just let it slide.

Now, though, you think you might owe Jiyong a fruit basket, diva that he is. Because, good god, but you are benefitting from his tutelage. Seunghyun’s got you pressed back against a wall, out of sight in your office. One hand’s spread wide over your shoulder, the other a starburst of warmth on your hip. He’s still playing the gentleman, though, and hasn’t tried to go under your shirt yet. It doesn’t matter. His lips are hot against yours, plush and soft in the way that only idol-lips can be, what with the constant applications of chapsticks and lotions and all. 

Just the barest hint of tongue—enough to tease you, to make you gasp into his mouth, wanting more—and he breaks away, a slow smile curling up the corners of his flushed lips.

“What, did Jiyong-ah teach to you to be a tease, too?” you snark, breathless. Without looking away from Seunghyun, you snag a tissue from the box on your desk and quickly dab at your lips, then check the mirror.

Fuck. Perfect as always.

Seunghyun laughs, and the deep sound rolls around your office like a rumble of thunder on a summer night. “No,” he says, still smiling. “That would have been you, noona.”

You swat at him, eyes narrowing as he dodges. Ugh, idol boys. “Go get in a chair, you brat,” you say, waving him out of your office. You’re glad that his manager trusts you; he’d dropped Seunghyun off into your tender clutches and then gone to do whatever it is he does when not riding herd on idols with more looks than sense. Whatever he’s doing, it means he’s not here to question why you look like you’ve had your wicked way with his client in your office.

(The answer would be that you look that way because you have, but that’s not an option for either of you. Not now.)

“Needed a moment, noona?” Seunghyun asks, all false innocence and wicked smile.

You throw a cotton ball at him. “You are a menace,” you inform him, turning to gather the kit you keep just for him. He’s been your client long enough that he has a box all his own, and he’s been your fuckbuddy long enough that it’s bright pink and glittery. You put the case on the rolling cart you prefer to use, flicking the lights on the mirror and countertop on so that you’ve got the best view of his face.

Seunghyun lets you work. For all that the two of you are a dangerous combination—for all that he’d talked you onto your desk, skirt hiked to your hips, panties god-only-knows-where, within a week of meeting you—you are also both professionals. You’re good at what you do. For him, that is acting and music and being beautiful. For you, that’s making people beautiful.

It helps that you’ve got such a canvas to work with, though.

\---

You aren’t sure why you let Seunghyun come up to your apartment, the small walk-up office space over your salon that you converted when you first bought the place. Maybe it’s that you know he’s dangerous when he’s bored. Maybe it’s that you like the affirmation.

Maybe it’s that you’re every bit the tease he accuses you of being.

You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and wanting, as you step out of the bathroom in a billow of steam. He’s seated on your bed, being careful not to muss his hair or his face or the nice trousers. His suit jacket is still hanging downstairs, or he’d probably be standing. His eyes trace the sloping, curved lines of your naked body—the arc of your hip, turning towards him as you reach the closet, the swing of your shoulder as you open the door, the swell of your ass as you reach in. 

You don’t mind. Everywhere his eyes are going, his hands and his mouth have already been. You’ve felt the warm stroke of his fingers, trickling like water, on your breasts, or caging your hips, or carefully pressing your knees and thighs apart. He’s kissed you, tasted you, everywhere. He’s taken your nipples and your navel into his mouthed, has laved every inch of you, until you have trembled and wailed beneath him. You know his touch. You know what those long fingers feel like, sinking slowly into your heated core, stroking against the trembling walls of your vagina. You’ve felt them holding you open, ready, so that his thick cock can slide in.

You shiver, and not just from the chill air of your bedroom. That’s enough thinking of that, you tell yourself firmly, time now for clothes. It doesn’t take long for you to find the right longline bra or your garter belt. You pick the correct pair of stockings, too, while you’re looking in that drawer. 

On your bed, Seunghyun says nothing, just watches as you draw black silk up your thighs and over your hips. 

In the mirror, though, you can see him shifting. He’s breathing a little faster, sure, but what really gets your gaze is the way he’s moving. His hips roll, just a little, more instinct than thought. He lets his legs spread a little further. His lips part, just so.

Good choice on the trousers, you think. They fit in the crotch like they were made for him, not just like you did some last-second tailoring when he put them on. He looks like god’s gift to coordi-noonas, spread like that. Yes. Solid choice on those trousers.

After checking quickly in the mirror to make sure that your garter is sitting right—not crooked, not rolled—you gather up your longline bra. God bless whoever had had the common sense to invent the front-closure longline. Unlike some, you fall easily into the category that needs to wear a bra, especially under fine fabrics made into dresses with that kind of neckline. And there needs to be some support; even Seunghyun’s wide hands struggle to hold all of you. And, most importantly, you need to be able to put it on by yourself.

This bra makes that all possible. It plunges to midback, and curves like a bustier in the front, but has hooks and eyes all up the front, from just beneath your bellybutton to just beneath your breasts. It, too, is made of dark, slick fabric, though not actual silk. You bought this bra originally for function, not fun.

Though, going by the look on Seunghyun’s face, fun is still an option.

You exhale, hard, and quickly do up the hooks. You’ll repeat that, later, when everything’s had a chance to settle where it belongs. For now, though, you lean forward, wriggling a little to get your boobs properly situated in their designer prison.

On the bed, Seunghyun groans. The sound is low, deep, and rich—you can feel it all the way through you. Still bent, staring into the mirror, you can see that he’s hard. His cock is tenting the trousers you selected, filling them out in ways that move the tailoring’s subtle suggestion of why yes, I have a large penis to more of a blatant advertisement of what he’s packing in those pants.

You grin, even as you swallow back the desire to undo all your hard work and just strip him down to his skin. “Got a problem, Hyunie?” you ask, turning to stalk towards him, stockings in hand.

“Tease,” he hisses back, eyes darting between your wickedly grinning face and the generous swell of your breasts at the top of your bra. He always has been a boob man.

Slowly, temptingly, you raise one long leg, daintily placing your foot just beside his thigh.

His adam’s apple bobs heavily as he swallows.

“I might need help,” you say, “getting my garters on right.” You catch his eyes. “You’ll help, won’t you?”

He swallows again, and his hands fist tightly in your bedspread. “Only if I can help you out of them later,” he growls.

You grin. “Can’t think of anything better.”

\---

The party, by and large, is just as boring as these parties always are. Seunghyun escorts you, perfect gentleman performed perfectly. You let him squire you about, introducing you to various actors and actresses and directors and producers who he has worked with before. He always introduces you as “my coordi-noona,” which might hurt your feelings, under other circumstances, but there are no illusions here. You were invited to let him bring a date without inviting scandal; idols do not date their coordi-noonas. Coordi-noonas make people pretty. They are not themselves pretty.

Whatever. The people you might are, generally, plenty nice. Some are nicer than others; you half expect to get a call from Han Yeri’s people tomorrow morning. She asks politely if she may steal Seunghyun, and you send them off with a smile. She’s far too sweet for his tastes, for one, and for two, you’ve started in on what promises to be a fascinating conversation with Park Hongsoo. 

\---

“Seunghyun!” you breathe, trembling fingers flexing in his hair as you remind yourself not to pull. It’s hard, though, because he’s got you hovering on the edge, so close to breaking that you think you’ll fall apart if you don’t hold on. Your entire world is being shaved down to lips and teeth and tongue and even the soft brush of his hair is starting to tremble away beneath the hot press of his tongue against your oh-so sensitive skin. “Oh…!”

He smirks at you, licking wet lips as he rises from where he was kneeling, face buried between your legs. He replaces his mouth with his hand, long fingers pressing in against your throbbing lips, edge of his palm resting against your clit.

It’s not enough to get you off, or even let you ride the rest of that wave over the cliff, but it’s close enough that you just want to cry.

“Noona,” he murmurs, and then he is kissing you, eating you up in the most wonderful way.

You can taste yourself in his mouth, and it makes you want more, the promise that’s there. He’s holding himself up on one hand, the hand that had been pressed against you now pressed into the plush mattress, the other where it started, holding tight to your hip, pinning you on the edge of the bed. You can feel him, hard, against your thigh, and suddenly you want nothing more than to feel his dick deep inside of you.

“Please, Seunghyun,” you beg, tangling your fingers in his hair once more.

He just grins—you can feel it against you skin—and nips the edge of your jaw. The hand that was on your hip starts rising, until you can feel his knuckles nudging the underside of your breast. It feels clumsy and sweet and wonderful, and he’s kissing down your neck, now, though he lingers in the hollow of your jaw for a moment.

Closing your eyes—you can’t take this anymore—you hook one leg around his hips, the other around his knees, and throw your weight around.

Seunghyun laughs with surprise as he’s thrown onto the bed, you rolling to cover him. His eyes crinkle up and his cheeks are bright and it’s all too much.

You kiss him, already correcting your position so that you’re straddling him properly. You’re going to have to take those pants to the dry cleaners tomorrow, because the thick ridge of his cock is pressing up into the warm wetness of you and you know, you just know that you’re soaking that fabric through. Because you’ve been wet since you slid into the car next to Seunghyun and he put an innocent hand on your thigh. When he slid said hand under the smooth silk of your skirt and started teasing up between your thighs, well, that certainly didn’t help any.

Or it helped too much. By the time you had reached the dorm he shared with the rest of the group, you’d been biting down on the edge of your hand to keep from making noises that his manager could hear from the front of the car. Seunghyun had kept up a running chatter with the other man, but his fingers—! They’d been fast in motion, in and out and tickling your inmost walls. He’d had his thumb resting against your clit, rubbing rough circles whenever he thought you weren’t trembling enough.

You’re grateful that his manager is either in on the game or completely, stupidly unaware. Either way, there had been privacy in the back of that car. Seunghyun had torn that first orgasm from you even as the car was being parked, and he’d winked at you as he’d licked you off his fingers. It’s little wonder you needed his support heading up to the dorm.

But now, now you’ve got him at your mercy.

You smirk down at him, watching his chest heaving beneath the white undershirt he’s wearing. His nipples are hard, and pebble the soft fabric as you watch. You treat him to a swift roll of the hips, just to make his eyes float back like he’s praying, and then you dive on him, licking and sucking those hard little nubs through the fabric, knowing how much sweeter it will feel.

Seunghyun groans and wriggles beneath you, getting nowhere but closer to you with the motion. You can feel the low tone rumbling through his chest and belly, down to where you are joined, until you think it must be vibrating through your clit. He must feel the delicious vibrations, too, because he groans again and then his hands are coursing over you, tangling in your hair and tracing the dips and swells of your skin.

You arch into his touch, letting him explore his fill. You’ll get yours soon enough.

His hands come to rest low on your back, right at the top of your ass. “Noona,” he begs, the word tumbling out on a single, shaking breath. “Noona, please...don’t tease…” He groans again, straining beneath you, curling up for more contact, for better touch.

That’s enough, you decide. He’s practically crying under you, begging for more, and you’re not much better, at the moment. Every single centimeter of your skin throbs, aches for his attention. You are so sensitive at this moment that you think you can feel the flow his breath leaving him, pressing against your skin, blowing on. You can feel the pulse of his blood, his cock pressed tight against your body, nestled in between your legs in a cruel, tempting mockery of what you both want.

“Fuck,” you groan, stretching your tight shoulders. You edge back—the movement makes you both cry out, and his fingers flutter as his hands tighten on your ass. Reaching down, you undo the button on his trousers. You slide your hand inside the fine fabric, feeling him press damp against your palm. You’re not the only one dripping.

He watches you, painfully close, as you lower the zipper on his trousers, your hand cupped between him and the sharp metal teeth. You watch him, too, eyes on his face and the way his lips part, ever so slightly, as you go. It’s a work of moments to slide him out above the elastic band of his boxer briefs, but it feels like years. 

Your hands shake as you fumble a condom out of the box on your bedside. He has to let go of your ass to accept it, but he lets you press it into his sweaty palm nonetheless. He smiles at you, raises it to his lips, bites down. The corner tears easily and then the condom is in his hand. You lift yourself to your knees to give him the space he needs to roll it down, parting your throbbing, sex-swollen lips with your fingers while you wait. You can’t help it; you quickly thumb over your clit. The electric feel lashes through you and you tremble, whimpering.

Seunghyun yanks his hands away from himself to your hips to your thighs and between. He replaces your fingers with two of his own and arcs upwards, upwards, oh! 

He slides into you smooth and sweet as honey, one easy stroke that leaves you gasping and biting down on your smile. God, he feels so good—! You can feel yourself stretching inside to accommodate him, the burn of it just on the wonderful side of painful. Seunghyun has the perfect dick, at least in your mind. He’s a good handful, hard, enough to stroke the parts deep inside that swell and beg for his caress. More than that, his cock is nice and thick, so taking him in always feels so deliciously naughty.

You settle down against him, having to bite your lip again at the sensation as his cock shifts deep inside you. The moment you take to catch your breath is just as much for you as it is for him.

Seunghyun bites down on his fat bottom lip, making it swell further. His eyes are sex-dark and heavy-lidded, like he can barely keep them open. “Noona,” he says, laying a hand on your forearm. 

You wait for a second for him to continue, but he seems to be stuck there, stuck on the thought of you. You can definitely empathise. “Seunghyunnie,” you say to him, his name sticking in your throat for a moment. You swallow, lick your lips—when did they get so dry?—and give your hips a slow, experimental roll.

His hand on your arm tightens and the other is on your ribs on your back and he is scratching deep furrows with those perfectly manicured nails and they are bright points of sensation lighting up your brain and he is throwing his head back and moaning, his eyes falling closed like this is all too much to bear.

Your breath comes in heavy pants and you can hear the blood pounding in your ears and it is a low bass thrum to the broken sound of his choked out moans and your own gasps as you move and he is trying to move with you and his hips sketch strange curls in the air as he arcs and twists to meet you to join you and you are together a whirl of constant frenetic motion and it is wonderful it is beautiful it is perfect. Beneath you the bed is creaking old wood complaining about the heave and the thrust but you don’t care you don’t care at all because that thrust is driving him deep into you so deep you think he is becoming part of you and you ache and you burn for him and he is burning he is burning too you can feel it you can feel it where he presses close against you his mouth meeting yours in sloppy wet open mouthed kisses that neither of you can close because you are breathing into one another and moaning out and his nipples are stiff peaks against your own with only the thin fabric of his shirt between you. The zipper on his trousers is a rough line of ice tracing sharp bursts against the superheated skin of your inner thighs and you don’t care you can’t care all you can feel is him and the rough friction of his neatly trimmed bush and the slick slide of latex which is stealing none of this away and his fingertips oh god his fingertips—

“Seung—!” you gasp out, your chin dropping to your chest as his fingers dig into the soft swell of your ass, anchoring you against him.

He laughs, the sound rough and wild, and thrusts hard up against you.

You scrape your nails across his shoulders, looking for any way to hold on, to brace yourself. Your hands end up fisted in the soft, sweat-damp cotton of his undershirt and you cling to him, your hips rocking wildly against his, a chorus of slick, slapping flesh keeping up the primal beat.

His hands move to your hips, fitting against the bones like they were made to sit there. He clings to you just as tight as you cling to him, just holding on for a long, wonderful moment. His eyes are open but distant, and then he slowly begins to focus, to pull his attention back on you.

You can feel his gaze on you and you meet his dark eyes, helpless in his thrall. “Seunghyun,” you choke, caught in his orbit and so close to release that it hurts.

He whispers your name, and it hangs in the air in a moment of perfect stillness, the neither of you breathing, the neither of you moving, the world, complete, for one 

Perfect

Second.

And then he breaks upon you like a wave, and his left hand is nestled in the small of your back, cradling and supporting you as you ride him, and his right hand is down at the apex of your thighs, at the place where you are joined together. The rough heel of his palm sits just so against your swollen clit and you cannot look away as he stares up at you and breathes in harsh pants, his mouth open and his lips slick with spit. You know that you must look the same, your jaw hanging loose and your hair tumbling down around your shoulders in sweaty tangles and you don’t care because this, this is the only thing that matters.

He thrusts, hard, so hard it should hurt but instead it is transcendental as his hand finds just the right motion and you coalesce you compress you feel every muscle every tendon in your body go tight and hard and he feels massive within you as your walls clamp down and the only part of you that can move is your blood.

The world is light the world is stars the world is a rush of echoing silence and sensation.

You come back to yourself in a rush of sound – in the sound of Seunghyun’s rough, grated roar as he comes, his eyes rolling back into his head and his body going tight tight tight like a bow before releasing suddenly into an utterly liquid limpness but for the subtle twitch of his cock still buried deep inside your pulsing walls.

It must be true that God looks out for fools, drunkards, and those having the best sex of their lives because somehow you manage to balance yourself on your hands just enough that you do not fall face-first into his heavy chest. Instead, you collapse in a clumsy puddle of limbs and being half on top, half beside him. You can feel his heart racing under your cheek and you know that yours is doing the same on top of his arm. You are breathing together, in and out and in and out in a fast, graceless rush as your lungs fight for the air to keep your body going after experiencing the ultimate in existence.

He somehow returns to his skin before you – or perhaps he is simply more motivated than you – because you feel as much as hear his low chuckle, the sound rumbling out from beneath your ear and into the air. Next one clumsy hand is stroking through your hair, sweeping it out of your face, half-heartedly. You can feel him still trembling.

You groan out some unintelligible response.

He laughs again. His fingers stroke through your hair once, twice, and then down your naked back and around your belly and to the place where you are still joined. He grunts slightly, still sensitive, and holds tight to the base of the condom as he withdraws.

This motion, this smooth glide and rough fumble, are enough to tip you over the edge into another orgasm, the third of the night. It’s only a weak approximation of the one still fizzing in your blood, simply your body’s last effort at acknowledging how overloaded your pleasure centers are, but you feel it rip through you in a fast pulse of clenching muscles and shivering nerves. 

Turning your head, you whine into his shoulder, and only barely give into the urge to hump against his muscular thigh.

He’s a gentleman through and through, is Seunghyun, and he lays a possessive hand against your spine and lets you do what you will until the aftershocks have finished rocking through you and you are a boneless strung-out wreck.

“Fuck,” you breathe, the word the only thing you can reach. It seems appropriate.

“Fuck,” Seunghyun agrees. He ties off the condom and tosses it towards the trash bin in the corner of his room. 

You really hope it reaches it. You can’t bring yourself to check. Not when you’ve got Seunghyun pressed against you, all loose, warm muscle limp from exertion and rich with the scent of sex and sweat. 

Unfortunately, he peels away from you first, carefully nudging and shifting and budging you to the top of the duvet so that he can sit up. He smiles at your offended pout and inches to the edge of the mattress, then stands up. The muscles in his thighs and ass tighten and tremble for a moment, struggling to remember their purpose.

You can only see that because he’s peeling out of the trousers you put him in earlier in the evening, and with them, the fancy silk boxer-briefs you bought because they were his favourite shade of blue. Mmmm. It’s a pretty sight.

He bends down, picks up the messy wad of fabric, turns to you. 

You don’t bother to fight back the smug smile at the sight of his dick hanging limp and defeated against his thigh. That’s right. You’re a winner. The best.

Seeing the stupid look on your face, he shakes his head and huffs a laugh. “Noona, should I bother folding these?” he asks.

Your turn to snort a laugh. “I think we can safely say those are ruined, Seunghyunnie,” you say. Gathering your muscles, you prop yourself up on an elbow. “Frankly? Even I’d be embarrassed to bring those to the dry cleaner.”

He lets the fabric fall, and it makes a dark puddle on the floor. He grabs his undershirt and peels out of it, unselfconscious for a moment. The moment ends; he snags the oversized, well-worn t-shirt he usually sleeps in off the arm of the desk chair and shrugs into it. He pulls on another pair of briefs, then throws another shirt at you.

You raise an eyebrow at him. Seunghyun’s a fan of easy access.

He shrugs. “You never know when someone will decide they have to talk to me,” he explains, and nods towards the unlocked door.

Eyes wide, you yank on the shirt. “Tell me they’re not home right now,” you hiss. You lurch to your feet, suddenly more awake than you have been since his fingers first started climbing under your skirt.

“They’re not home right now,” he parrots obediently. He helps you gather up the remains of your garter belt and thigh-highs, hanging them on the closet door next to your gown. “Honestly? They probably aren’t. Daesung’s been spending time with his family and Youngbae’s been spending all night in the gym practicing dancing and Seungri sleeps with earplugs and a white noise machine, anyway. And, hey, if someone did hear…” He grins at you and wiggles an eyebrow.

You groan and silently promise yourself to never, ever look Kwon Jiyong in the eye again.

Ever.


	2. Interlude - GD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jiyong comes home after a seriously shitty day to overhear TOP and noona. He uses it as spank material.

Jiyong stares blankly at the screen of the computer, not really seeing anything. He’s been working on this one song—hell, this one part of this one song—all day, and so far? Nothing. It’s taken him a week just to get this far, but, as the clock on the taskbar reminds him, he doesn’t have a week to get a few inches further. This album’s got to be ready to go, soon.

Being in the studio since 9 o’clock in the morning probably hasn’t helped, but what else is he supposed to do? Wait around at home, staring at the wall, hoping something will stride into his head? Yeah, right. That’s a recipe for disaster, given how Daesung’s off with his family, Seungri’s been working his ass off on his own shit—or on someone else’s shit; Jiyong’s not really clear—and Youngbae’s been working with the dance crew and sleeping in a sleeping bag he keeps hidden in the dressing room. On top of that, Seunghyun—Big Seunghyun, the only one that’s really Seunghyun in his head—has been out, constantly, promoting his movie and meeting with friends from the movie and spending time with people from the movie.

Jealousy is not a good look on Kwon Jiyong, and he is more than self-aware enough to know that. Working from home will not work because he will do what he always does when left in that void with himself: nothing. He’ll sit on the couch and watch bad television and eat bad food and hate himself a little more with each passing hour. That’s not an option, not when he needs to get shit done.

Groaning, Jiyong throws himself away from the computer, grateful for the wheels on the chair. If only he could get the rest of that one line… He knows that if he can just complete that one flow, the rest of it will tumble forth. It’s all trapped up in his head like a logjam, and it’s driving him nuts. He swears under his breath and starts kicking around the floor, pushing the chair so that it circles.

As it starts to spin, he tucks one leg up and sets his chin on his knee, thinking. The other leg stays busy, kicking along, so that the chair keeps moving. 

A horrible, horrible things halts him: the steady, white-noise hum of the iMac stops.

Jiyong jolts to a stop, feeling his knee jerk in a painful contortion as he uses it as a brake. “No, no, no,” he starts begging, seeing the blank, black screen, dull in the way that says the power is gone. “No, no, no, nonono,” he chants, looking down, under the desk. It looks like the plug’s been pulled out. By his foot? Shit. Way to go, fuck up.

He slides off the chair and crawls under the desk, uncaring of the dirt and the dust that’s accumulated. He curses himself in his head and pleads denials outloud, even as he gathers up the power cord and plugs the computer back in.

He crawls out. Maybe it will work? He can’t have lost everything. That’s absurd! He’s done this before, plenty of times. Surely he hit save a time or twenty. (A sickening thought starts to sink, cement-heavy, in his belly. It hadn’t been going well. He hadn’t been hitting save.)

The computer boots up, asks for his log-in. He types it in, rocket-fast, then accepts the screens asking if he’d like to reopen the previous programs. The song-editor boots slowly, taking its time. His fingers tighten on the mouse.

START NEW PROJECT, the screen asks.

It’s blank. It’s completely fucking blank. 

Numb, Jiyong quickly opens up the command panel. No, the project he’d been working on isn’t there, either. He runs through every single method he can think of for saving or re-finding a project. They all come up empty, blank. Even the old version is gone—file corrupted? Wide-eyed, horrified, he wraps his fingers around the (now empty) coffee mug on his desk.

It can’t be gone. He’s spent a week on that. He needs that. “Fuck,” he chokes out, the word catching in his throat. “Fuck!” 

He throws the mug in his hand. It hits the wall and shatters, cheap ceramic scattering in all directions, a white starburst marking where it hit. 

“Fuck!” Jiyong yells, his throat painful and his voice rough. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!” With each curse, he flings something else from the desk, from the surrounding area, reaching for that perfect zen moment of pure nothingness like the exact second the mug had hit the wall and just started to shatter. But no matter how many pens, notebooks, and little stuffed animals he throws, that moment is gone. It didn’t last and it isn’t coming back.

“Fuck,” he swears again, in a whisper this time, falling back into his chair. He’s numb, completely numb. 

The phone on his desk rings. Jiyong stretches out one limp hand and picks up the vibrating, ringing handset. He answers it.

“Hello?”

“Jiyong-ah,” Yang says, his voice firm and unamused. “Please do not destroy all of my things. I’m sure that Hwangssabu could help you work off some of that energy in a more productive way.”

It’s not a suggestion; it’s a politely-framed order. Head hanging, Jiyong knows it for what it is. “Yes, sajangnim.”

“Good,” Yang says. He doesn’t bother with a goodbye or any of that other conversational frippery, just hangs up the phone.

Feeling like he’s burning from the inside out, Jiyong narrowly resists flipping the bird at the CCTV camera poised in the corner of his workspace. Yang will put up with a lot, where Jiyong is concerned, and he definitely allows for the artists working under him to lash out when they need to (he understands that this is a thankless, hateful business, and that they all love it with all their hearts) but there are some things he just won’t let slide. Frankly, Jiyong’s not in the mood for a lecture. 

Instead, he throws himself to his feet and starts his way down the hall. He leaves the computer and its still waiting screen behind him, all too ready to be away from the heavy weight of expectation and the heavier crushing guilt of not being enough, of never being enough, of not possibly being able to become enough to give his members and his friends and his family what they all need. But of course he’s ready to run away from that responsibility, he reflects, angry. He’s always ready to run away from his responsibilities, at least when they’re like this, piling up, staring down at him.

Give him one at a time and he’s got it. Give him more and he’s fucked, you’re fucked, everyone’s fucked. He pounds down the hall, litany throbbing through his head like the raw ache of a sore tooth. And, like a sore tooth, he can’t leave it alone. As he changes into workout clothes, as he ties on far-too-expensive tennis shoes, he thinks about all the time he has wasted, all the things he has fucked up, all the things he has done wrong.

This week alone, the total is sickening. The realization of just how much he has ruined sits in his chest, a hollow, empty feeling, cold and sick like a ghost on his heart. He can feel his throat tightening, can feel his eyes starting to burn. He closes them, tight, and thinks of nothing for a second before entering the gym.

Hwangssabu is working with Chaerin, talking to her as she cools down (or warms up, maybe) on a treadmill. He looks up as Jiyong comes in. He spends a moment looking over the thin young man, then murmurs something to Chaerin and approaches Jiyong.

“I was told that you might could use something to work off a bit of stress,” Hwangssabu says, approaching him. He pauses just a few steps away, his eyes coursing over the singer’s face. He looks his fill, taking in all the details and getting a good idea of what’s going on, at least as best as he can from the look Jiyong’s currently sporting. “Jiyong-ah?” he says, finally.

And at that—at the gentle, kind tone of his voice, the concerned look creasing his face, the way he half-reaches forward, as if reaching to support him—Jiyong just loses it. The slight, prickling sting at the back of his eyes becomes a full-born burn, and his vision goes weak and watery and dull. Jiyong just sniffles and just sits down, right where he is, because his legs are that close to collapsing, because they won’t hold his weight, because he just can’t stay upright anymore. He falls to the floor and he bawls, doesn’t just cry but actually, honest to goodness bawls, tears streaming down his cheeks and mouth open in a completely unbecoming howl as sobs jerk through him and leave him shuddering.

He wails out all of it—the frustration at his inability to move forward and work on his project, the anger at losing a week’s worth of data on something he still needs, the humiliation that he, he is the cause of that loss, no one else to blame, and the exhaustion. Oh, but he cries out the exhaustion in a way he hasn’t been able to for weeks, for months, even. 

Jiyong has always been an emotional crier. He cried when Yang confirmed that he would debut, and that he was building the group for it to happen. He cried when BigBang was officially formed, five boys with the stars in their eyes and the moon in their hearts. He cried when BigBang won, again, and again, and again. He cried when the music wouldn’t come together. He cried when Hwangssabu said he wasn’t working hard enough. He cried when the dances just wouldn’t flow, when Seunghyun’s long legs became a stumbling blocks, when Daesung got lost, when everyone had the dance and knew it and it just didn’t come together as five.

But he had never, ever been a pretty crier. The coordis had worked with him, to get him to the point where he could delicately sniffle and blink back the waterworks on stage and in front of cameras, but everyone who knew Jiyong knew that he’d get backstage or the cameras would shut off and he’d just lose his shit. He’s prone to sobbing in sick, cyclical rises and falls, the kind of crying that leaves his shoulders heaving and aching and his belly feeling tight and ill. He hiccups and chokes on tears and the lump in his throat and the snot. Oh, god, the snot. He drips from every orifice when he cries, Jiyong does, and tears inevitably turn him into a slimy squid of gross.

Dealing with crying idols is, actually, in Hwangssabu’s contract, though probably not in so many words. It’s expected that idols are going to get pushed to the breaking point, and sometimes beyond it, when they are in the gym. But while he’s required to deal with idols sobbing their eyes out and snotting all over his shoulder and screeching like infants, Hwangssabu is, like, nine thousand percent not actually okay with it. The way he reaches out a hand and tentatively pats Jiyong’s heaving shoulder, like it’s a wild animal ready to bite him, should be hysterical.

It just makes Jiyong cry harder. He feels unloved and unloveable and he misses the easy cuddling he usually gets from his members but which has evaporated like dew under the summer sun. Preparing for this comeback is not like when the others they have had, when they fell together easily, like children, like none of them had ever left the dorm or left to lead their own lives; this time, every single one of them has their own lives and their own things going on. Coming back into the dorm is not the welcome, comforting jumble it used to be. Instead, it has been a grab bag of odd ends and jutting elbows and questionable habits. Daesung’s spending all his time at home and at church, Taeyang’s been up to his eyeballs in his own mess of things to get done, Seungri’s been finishing up the tail end of his own promotions, and Seunghyun’s tying up the last loose ends of promoting his film. 

At the thought of Seunghyun, Jiyong just sobs harder, curling himself around Hwangssabu’s awkward embrace. More than anything else that has gone wrong or just not gone right, Jiyong misses Seunghyun. He misses their easy camaraderie and the sweet skin-to-skin and the welcome way they just seemed to exist in each other’s orbits. He misses the early mornings and the late nights.

He misses the sex.

Because before Seunghyun had his coordi-fuckbuddy, he’d had Jiyong, and it had been good. They hadn’t had any emotional involvement—okay, Seunghyun hadn’t had any emotional involvement, and Jiyong had lied about the sweet stirrings high in his chest—but they had had each other. It had been friendship at the purest, cleanest, best feeling. And then Seunghyun had gone in his direction, and Jiyong had gone in his, and somewhere along the way, Seunghyun had found her. And he hadn’t needed Jiyong anymore.

Which doesn’t mean that Jiyong doesn’t still need him. That’s the sick, sad part of it. Jiyong needs Seunghyun, needs the sex, like a junkie craving a fix. When he’s on his grossest, most out of control crazy, he needs to be anchored back in his body and held there until his brain boots through to a reset. Sex with Seunghyun had done that, and it had felt good—better than good, good didn’t begin to cover how mind-blowingly wonderful it felt, being pinned down and covered and smothered and forced to pay attention just to him, just to this, just to now.

Chaerin eases Jiyong out from Hwangssabu’s arms and rocks him back and forth, cooing and clucking over him. She strokes his hair back from his gross, gross face and lets him wail into her shoulder, uncaring of the foul mess he is undoubtedly making on her expensive exercise clothing. She’s warm and gentle and loving and wonderful, simply wonderful, giving him the contact and the care he needs so badly.

Chaerin knows what this is about. She knows what it means to be on top and still feel like you are slogging up a steep hill made of sharpened knives. She knows what it feels like when you are buried beneath the crushing weight of your own goddamn inadequacies and no one, not a single person, will let you forget that you haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of living up to their expectations. She also knows how Jiyong feels about the comeback, and how he feels about the atmosphere in the dorm, and how he feels Seunghyun. Hell, Chaerin knows how Jiyong has felt about Seunghyun. He needs to talk to someone, and he talks to her.

Eventually, between the two of them, Hwangssabu and Chaerin get Jiyong settled enough that he’s sitting—albeit sloppily—on his own, hiccupping occasionally, sniffling wetly. He’s a gross, sad sight, and Hwangssabu sends Chaerin out to grab a bottle of water from the fridge in the other room. He squats down in front of Jiyong, looking uncomfortable and awkward.

“Jiyong-ah,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I…this isn’t my place. I understand that. But. Um.”

“Just spit it out,” Jiyong says, the words dull and tired.

Hwangssabu grimaces. “Sex might help.”

Jiyong can’t do anything but stare at him, bewildered. Did Hwangssabu seriously just…

“If not with a partner—I understand that can be difficult,” the trainer rambles on, “then with yourself. Or, ah, just sleep with a hand down your shorts? The brain has ways of working this out…”

“I’m going to pretend like I heard all of none of that,” Chaerin snickers, coming back in, water bottle in hand. 

Jiyong accepts it as she forces it into his hand. “Yeah,” he agrees, nodding dumbly. He looks up at Chaerin. “Your driver still here?”

She nods. “You going to get him to take you home? Good idea. You’re too tired to drive yourself, and you smell too bad for a taxi.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jiyong snarks, pushing himself to his feet. He nods his thanks to her, quickly thanks Hwangssabu, apologises for his messy breakdown, and heads downstairs.

\---

When he gets back to the apartment they’re sharing, he’s greeted at the door by a pair of high heels, far too small to belong to anyone living there. Fuck, someone—Seunghyun, he suspects, based on the dress shoes tucked neatly in the corner—has brought home a girl.

“Probably his coordi,” he mutters to himself, toeing out of his workout shoes. He decides to head to the kitchen, to get something to eat. Heaven knows he hasn’t done that in nearly as long as he hasn’t slept; some food in his belly would be good. Then he can go and hibernate for a while, and the world will all be sunshine and roses when he wakes up.

He rummages through the fridge for a bit, finding nothing more exciting than Daesung’s protein shakes (he makes them in mass batches, then drinks them down as he gets a yen for one) and Youngbae’s neat little prepackaged salad mixers. Next, he goes through the major cabinets. There’s rice, some plain ramyeon noodles (no spices or anything, just the noodles; the dieticians believed in letting you pretend to have your vices), a couple of oyster crackers from when Seungri had a stomach bug, and some puffed corn. 

Jiyong thinks for a moment, pouting at the lack of easily accessible grease and sugar. He should have had the driver stop at McDonalds before the house; actually, wait, no, that would have been a poor life choice, because the man would undoubtedly report back to Yang, who would tell Hwangssabu, the cockbite, because no suffering idol in the throes of great despondency deserved to eat what he fucking wanted to for a single fucking emotional binge, god damn it.

Luckily, there is no one to report Daesung’s secret cabinet, the one where he’s taped chocolate bars to the underside of the shelves. You have to bend down to reach it, so no one has bothered to look, even when raiding the dorm for “contraband.” The trick lies in putting back the chocolate you take and taking the wrappers outside to throw them away; Youngbae had pioneered the little engineering game back when they first came together, back when the words “chocolate bar” were enough to reduce Seunghyun to craving tears.

Which doesn’t mean Hwangssabu won’t know. He always knows (the utter dickfuck.)

Grumpy, Jiyong tears a chocolate bar away from its dark hiding place. The Ghana bar’s brown wrapper flutters way easily, and he barely remembers to shove it into the pocket of his pants—to be dealt with later—as he occupies himself with eating it.

He basically floats his way back to his room, high on a combination of breaking the rules and the chocolate itself. He can feel it melting on his fingers, and he doesn’t give a fuck, because it’s also melting in his mouth, and the bitterness of the cacao is balanced perfectly with the sugar and it’s creamy and smooth and perfect.

Jiyong’s just perched on the edge of his bed, chocolate shoved awkwardly in his mouth, when he hears it.

“Oh—oh god! Seunghyun!” drifts through the wall, a breathy declaration.

Jiyong nearly drops his chocolate. In moments, the lazy discontent and the waiting inadequacy are shoved away; in their place, he finds only a numbly-incandescent rage.

Seunghyun brought his fuckbuddy—his new, female fuckbuddy—back here, to the apartment, to the place they share, to the place that is supposed to be home to all of them. He is fucking her here, in that bed, in the bed he once fucked Jiyong in. In the bed he has been too busy to fuck Jiyong in. And they’re not even bothering to be quiet.

Fuckers, Jiyong thinks, finishing his chocolate. 

He’s not sure why he does it, or if he even has a reason, but Jiyong slinks over to the wall and sits down against it. He can hear panting and moaning and the wet, sloppy sounds of Seunghyun giving a girl head. It’s not much different from the way Seunghyun sounds giving him head, really, but for the fact that he’s rougher, hungrier, as if he is actually eating her alive. His grunts and the low, lewd sounds he makes are muffled by her thighs, and they become closed off, secretive.

His hand in his lap, working slowly over his half-hard cock, Jiyong sneers. She’s a moaner, it sounds like. For every rough growl of Seunghyun’s, she’s moaning out half-spoken words and fumbled ideas and pure liquid sounds, like she can’t restrain herself, like she can’t hold herself in.

He knows what that feels like. 

Well, fuck them. Jiyong’s got better things to do with himself than to sit here and listen to them have sex through the wall and feel bad about himself. If they’re going to put on a goddamned live-action porno for him, well, bully for them, he’s going to use it. He’s angry and he’s tired and he’s more than a little hurt, okay, he’s man enough to admit to that, and he knows that if he comes, just once, he will be out like a light and probably not wake up for a few days and right now, right now, that’s just what he needs.

Without getting up from where he is seated against the wall, Jiyong stretches a hand under his bed. He fumbles for a few seconds, and then his fingers hit the rough cardboard of the shoebox he keeps there. Catching the edge, he fishes it out and lifts off the lid. 

Inside the box is a treasure trove of the fantastic plastic collection, even though it’s mostly silicone with a few glass additions and, noteworthy, one carved marble one that he had sent back from New York. The shipping was insane, but totally worth it for the looks Chaerin gave him for a month after she retrieved the package for him. And for the way it feels when he uses it. That’s a part that can’t be ignored.

Jiyong takes a moment making his decision. He surveys the collection he’s got hidden under his bed, which is a grouping of his favorites (there are more hidden in another large box in his closet, but those are more specialized, or meant to be used with another person, or ones he bought mostly for the way Chaerin’s face contorts when she tries—and then succeeds—to work out how he uses them.) In this box, he’s got the basics, but even then, there are choices to be made. Does he want something with a more natural texture and shape, or are his tastes leaning towards fake and angled, today? Does he want one of the ones that vibrates, the one that thrusts, or is he feeling up to doing all the work himself, this time? Is he looking to fill himself to the point of crying, or just to fill the emptiness?

He settles on a black vibrator that’s not too large but certainly not the smallest in his collection. It’s not all that fancy, really; it doesn’t have any special settings or add-ons or anything like that. It’s black silicon, supposed to feel realistic, and it’s vaguely shaped like a human dick. It’s also the one Jiyong bought after he first had sex with Seunghyun and couldn’t stop thinking about the way it had felt, the way they had come together so neatly.

He may have issues, but he handles them in mature ways, okay?

The click of the cap on the bottle of lube is echoed by “Seunghyun!” being gasped out on the other side of the wall. Jiyong puddles some of the slick liquid in his hand, listening to the way Seunghyun chuckles. It’s a dark, raw sound, and he can only imagine the way it must feel rising up between her legs, because Seunghyun laughs from deep in his gut when he laughs like that. 

Jiyong echoes the woman’s surprised, pleased, “oh!” as he slides a finger into his ass. It feels good, being folded over like this, his face pressed against the base of the wall, plunging his fingers into himself. He’s some wanton kind of origami, and he can’t help but think about what this would look like if anyone walked in right this moment. His ass in the air, pale and round, thighs straining to hold him in this strange arch, already flushing with want—

He bites his lip, hard. Between his legs, which are spread wide to accommodate the strange angle, his cock throbs wickedly, head already probably going red like a tomato. His face is pretty red, too, both from want and from the way he’s sending what little blood is still flowing straight down into it. His arm is starting to ache from the twisted way he’s forcing it back behind him, and his wrist is going numb, because that’s not a natural angle for wrists, the way he’s holding it so that he can fuck his fingers into himself in a rapid, steady glide.

“Please, Seunghyun!”

Please, indeed. Jiyong switches out his fingers for the black toy, first slicking it up by running it along the crack of his ass, already puddling with slick leaking from his hole. As he pushes it in, slow and steady, he bites down on the forearm he’s using to brace himself on the floor. He doesn’t even notice the sting of his teeth on skin; his attention is far too wrapped up in the stretch of the vibrator sinking in and the way it’s filling up that hollow space that begs for more and the way that every single nerve in his body seems to be coming to life all at once in one great, huge, wonderful blaze.

They’re laughing on the other side of the wall, and Jiyong doesn’t care, only just barely hears it. The way he’s folded over himself means that this isn’t perfect, this isn’t exactly right, but for once, that’s totally okay. What makes the music not work simple makes this feel more organic, more real; here, his imperfections and his inabilities and his simple, actual humanity do not get in the way. He closes his eyes against the return of that familiar, stinging burn and focuses instead on the thought that, for the first time in what is probably not as long as it seems, he’s getting what he needs.

The vibrator slides in just right, smooth and perfect. His body welcomes it with a hunger that would startle him, if his brain was capable of being startled right now. The silicone starts off just this side of chill, a shock to his heated system, but being buried in his ass is quickly warming it to that same skin-hot that’s brightening his cheeks. He fumbles once or twice, trying to get the best grip with the best angle, but not turning on the vibrations just yet. He’s not quite ready for that.

As the bed on the other side of the wall starts squeaking in a dangerously familiar rhythm, Jiyong gets to work. In and out and in and out and, yes, just like that! He groans into his arm, echoed by Seunghyun in the other room. And, oh, there, there is his prostate, fuck, yes. The perfect second of whiteness overwhelms him and when it fades all he can think about is getting that again, more, please.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck, Jiyong chants to himself, trying to coordinate the perfect rhythm with his hand on the thick black silicone and the way he’s thrusting back, fucking himself on it. She’s saying his name, calling him Seunghyunnie like she’s earned that, and maybe she has, maybe he’s given her that. Jiyong hates her and loves her and wants to be her, all in one second, as the cock-that-is-not-Seunghyun’s strikes his prostate once again and he has to bite down on the edge of his lube-slick hand to keep from screaming because it is so perfectly wonderfully good.

He can feel tears starting to seep beneath his eyelids but he can’t feel the sadness anymore so that’s all okay, isn’t it? And the burn low in his belly could be anger or it could be arousal, and fuck Seunghyun, anyway. They’d said no emotions and mostly they’d stuck to that but that didn’t mean that Jiyong didn’t deserve so much as a text letting him know that the game had changed, did it? So fuck Seunghyun, fuck him.

Jiyong thrusts the vibrator in, suddenly rough and harsh and angry. He is reminded, abruptly and beautifully, of why he likes angry sex. 

Because there is nothing that can compete with the feeling of being used, of using someone, of tossing off all of your negative emotions and getting to fight them out and down until there is nothing left but a savage, animalistic joy. Cramped down against the wall, his face buried down into a pillow, his arm straining behind his back as he fucks himself with injection-molded plastic, Jiyong lets himself get lost in the rush of feeling, the heat and the burn it elicits. He is panting, now, his breath racing hard and fast over his lips, damping the pillow. The lack of oxygen is leaving him reeling, and he feels like he is floating, completely and totally disconnected from the earth.

He tries hard, so very hard, to stay quiet, but that’s just not happening. He’s not very loud during sex, not very vocal, but that is because most of the time he is digging his teeth into his partner. It’s not a conscious habit, no, definitely not something he focuses on doing. It’s just something that has developed over the years and become a part of how he does what he does. He bites down, usually on arms or shoulders, somewhere out of sight if the situation calls for it. Biting is how Jiyong holds on, how he maintains his grip on earth and life and reality when the whole of his body seems to be made of sound and light and he wants to drift off with them. The quiet, the way flesh muffles the broken sounds he inevitably makes, is just a side benefit.

Unfortunately, in this awkward twist and with no partner, Jiyong can only somewhat bite down on his own arm, and he’s just aware enough to be careful not to break the thin skin or to leave a mark that will last. It’s not enough, really, and he finds himself whimpering out half-voiced pleas for more and for more and for more. He is untethered, loosed, adrift in an ethereal existence and made up only of trillions of fast-firing nerves all screaming out about one thing and that is that he is so close, so close. 

Whining deep in his throat, Jiyong flicks the base of the vibrator, turning it on. As the little motor hums to life, he lets himself fall to the floor, pleasure trembling along every nerve, his each and every muscle quaking with need and want. For a long moment, he stays like that, immobilized by the electric sensations consuming him. Eventually, though, the throbbing demand of his untouched cock aching between his legs forces him into action. 

He slips and slides on the hardwood floors, his knees slick with sweat and also a little bit with lube; he always has been over-generous with it when fucking himself. Biting down into the soft cotton fluff of the pillow—now very wet where his face has been lying—he reaches down between his thighs with one hand. He wraps trembling fingers around his cock, and the fire in him brightens a little more, burns a little higher at the feeling of firm bone and warm flesh wrapping around the centrality of his want. He uses the other hand to keep a firm grasp on the vibrator and then, after spending a moment steeling himself, he begins to stroke his cock, too.

Oh, it is too much it is not enough it is just exactly what he has been needing! Jiyong cries out into his pillow, feeling a new rush of tears start down his cheeks and not caring. Yes, god, yes, that feels so good, to find every nerve in his body working together, working for this one great goal and oh! It feels like being loved. 

He thinks it might just swallow him up.

He thinks he might just be okay if it does.

Seunghyun roars on the other side of the thin wall, a familiar sound, and Jiyong has no trouble imagining the hot rush of come filling him up as he hears it. He twitches with desire, and that has the most amazing consequences: his hand jars the vibrator until it is sitting just right, just there, on his prostate, vibrating merrily away as his thumb swipes over the head of his cock and just underneath where he is so, so sensitive.

And he is coming, keening out all that he has felt into the pillow, now sobbing with a mix of want and release and need of all kinds. He loses control of his body and his limbs are going every which way and he is no longer twisted up like a pretzel folded up like plastic melting in the oven strained into an impossible position he is simply a puddle on the floor. 

Too soon, though, the vibrator is too much, now on the painful side of good. Jiyong twists it off with an aching wrist and draws it from his ass. He keeps his eyes closed, though, and doesn’t bother to start the actual clean up just yet. Instead, he rolls so that he is laying on his side, nestled in the comfy cradle of cushions he designed for Gaho and Jolie when they are over. It works pretty well for him, too. The sweat is starting to cool on his skin and he knows he should clean up the come on his thighs, his belly, and the floor before it dries but somehow, somehow, he just cannot find the energy to move.

The thought of being found like this gives him the impetus, though, and he eventually struggles to his feet, like a newborn deer, fumbling and unwieldy. He nudges the soiled pillow further away from the nest, in hopes of remembering to clean it later. The box of toys goes where it belongs, which is to say, back under the bed. The used toy, he puts in a little plastic organizer in his bedside drawer, to remind himself to clean it properly when he goes to the shower next. Then, finally, he stumbles towards the cozy welcoming shape of his bed.

He barely manages to part the duvet before he is falling on top of the mattress. Rolling fully onto the bed and flipping the blanket back over use up the last of his energy. 

He falls asleep to the sound of muffled voices in the next room.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Noona (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145584) by [creepy_crawly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_crawly/pseuds/creepy_crawly)




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